Long-Term Hopes, However Forlorn - Deducing Humanity
by CompanionToMisterHolmes
Summary: A Being Human/ Sherlock AU. It's a little gory from the start, but only as much as we've had from post-mortems and crime scenes in the world of Mr Holmes. It's all Sherlock characters so far. With Vamp!Lock, Ghost!Molly and Were!John.
1. I'm A Bloody Ghost

_Well, Shit. _Was Molly Hooper's first thought, as she saw her still form lying on the cold disinfected mortuary floor, blood spilling from the stab wound in her back and trailing down her chin from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were glassy and her hair was limp, matted with the residual sweat from a chase and blood from the post-mortem head wound. Cause of death, stabbed in the back._How cliché._ She had not caught full sight of her attacker, but the gait and speed of their footfalls suggested a female, who was clearly unskilled as the evidence, her cooling corpse, lay quite obviously before her. _I mean, if I was going to get murdered, it could have at least been someone with a modicum of sense, something interesting, a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes at least, this is a two at best. I could solve this! Well, not so much anymore._

The Molly that stood above her dead self was pale, tired, and a little confused. She had guessed, no maybe deduced was a more fitting word, that if she was standing before her own corpse she could be little more than a spirit, maybe even a ghost, although that sounded stupid. Molly hadn't believed in ghosts since she was seven and her father had told her that a ghost was merely a memory, an exaggerated tale that lets the imagination run wild, but being a ghost had certainly shifted her perspective on the matter. _So ghosts are real, I wonder if fairies are too? _

Having discovered, in a hopeless attempt to remove the shoes from her somehow aching feet, although she supposed imagination had a lot to play in the role of feeling, because she sure as hell couldn't feel the knife in her back, or anything else for that matter, that she could not remove her clothing, that she was stuck in her last living outfit; Molly was at least pleased she'd been brutally killed out of office hours, and therefore out of her ghastly lab coat, assuming eternity was a given, eternity in that thing would have driven her mad. Instead Molly was wearing a comfortable navy blue skirt over thick woolen tights, and a form fitting long sleeved grey top, with her second favourite deep blue floral cardigan._Suitable choice for my end of days. _

Molly made her way up to the lab, it was one floor up, and getting away from her flesh self before rigor mortis kicked in felt now like somewhat of a priority, she may have had a morbid fascination with corpses, but her own blood was sticky on the white floor, and her own face looked decidedly more frightened than herself._I mean I'm already dead, can't really be scared of much now. _Plus, Molly was rather interested to test out a few 'fact-or-fiction' theories about being a ghost, walking through walls, making cups float to freak people out, 'rent-a-ghost-ing' from one place to another, moving her spirit away from the sight of her untimely demise,_because I'm not sure I want to haunt a teaching hospital mortuary for eternity._

It was all a bit hit and miss, 'rent-a-ghost-ing' was certainly more fun than she'd expected, but it was also tricky to get right, and as of yet, more than ten meters was her limit of travel, and upstairs was a no go. Walking through walls was easy enough, although you certainly see some things amidst the crack and debris behind the plaster board. She managed to hitch a ride in a lift without being left behind, but pushing the buttons herself wasn't quite working out, and the floating cup thing was the best ten minutes of her life death, down in the IT department (a failed 'rent-a-ghost' trip.)

When she finally got to the lab, it was deadly quite for all of ten minutes, before Sherlock Holmes came waltzing in barking orders for coffee and slides and body parts. At first, she assumed it was what he did when he walked into Bart's labs, order her about even if she weren't there, John had told her stories of Sherlock having had conversations with him even when he was in another country. But then he looked her dead in the eye, glaring, as if to challenge her to not make the coffee, to not provide the body parts, to not swing her lab coat around her shoulders and go from off duty to his personal lab assistant, even if she was a Doctor. And her jaw dropped.

"Wait, can you see me?" Molly spoke softly and incredulously, her voice only just breaking into it's new form, like the first few words of a morning, still fogged with sleep.

"Yes Molly, and hear you, shockingly I am neither deaf nor blind. And we have already had the conversation about you counting, please don't make me repeat the sentiment so often." He sounded gruff and unamused, classically Sherlock, but Molly's jaw was still slackened from shock as he continued. "Now, black, two sugars, if you don't mind."

"You cannot be serious. You can see me?!" She practically shouted. "Sherlock. I'm a bloody ghost! And you can see me." Her arms were flailing wildly in an unsure gesture.

"Ah, I was unaware Halloween was approaching, it's not much of a ghost costume. Isn't it usually a sheet with eye holes, for the lazy amongst us." He snorted.

"It's not Halloween Sherlock." She let out a frustrated sigh; _maybe a viewing of my corpse will kick that big ol' brain into gear. _"Come with me, there's a - ah - an interesting _specimen? _down in the morgue. Full body, can't bring it to you, so you'll have to go to it."

"Molly, I am on a case. There's a man's alibi resting upon my shoulders, could you please not distract me. Conversation is not your area."

"Sherlock Holmes. Nothing is my area anymore. Just this once, follow me. I'm sure it'll be worth it. You owe me!"_Aha that's got him._ And it had, Sherlock Holmes did owe Molly Hopper, for keeping his secret after his faked death, for signing the papers, for risking so much, although he was baffled as to why she was using it for something so simple as going downstairs.

So he did, he got up from his stool, leaving his coat behind and walked down to the morgue. So consumed in his own mind palace that he missed that Molly's foot was halfway through the door before it swung open.

* * *

And there she was again. Molly Hopper standing over the cold flesh and bones that was her former body, blood dried around her crown and on her cheek, a sticky puddle of the deep red substance still beside her. Sherlock Holmes gave her one glance, scanning over the motionless form. Sadness took hold of him first, for mere moments, but long enough. Then he ran his tongue over his front teeth, smoothing over the glossy enamel, blinking away tears and blackening eyes.

"It appears, Molly Hopper. I have some things to explain."


	2. You're a Bloody Vampire

"A Vampire? Well this just gets better and better, doesn't it? God -um - sorry, I get a little snarky when I'm stressed. You know, dying hasn't exactly calmed me as much as I would have expected." Molly was perched on one of the uncomfortable plastic bucket chairs in her office, she had slipped through it's clutches the first time, still getting used to the extent of her 'powers', at least she could no longer experience the discomfort the office chair usually gave. _Always a silver lining. _

"Yes, well, as your spirit is still present, something within your life or death is unresolved, you're bound to be restless." He smirked.

"Okay, so I have a few questions I suppose." She leaned her head into her hands, releasing a slow breath, but seeing no real point to it. _It's not like I need to breath, do ghosts breath? _The exhale was icy cold, and she could see the way it clung to the air, crystals hanging there and slowly floating to the ground.

"Go ahead." Sherlock's body leaned closer to her, unconsciously, eyes focused.

"You're so... interested, it's strange, Sherlock. Could you, maybe, ignore me a little more? Just a bit. Might make this whole ordeal a little more familiar?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, willing to let go of the guilt settling in his stomach, a smile gracing his lips as he leaned back into the chair. His body language not so confrontational, not so intrigued by the celestial being in front of him.

"Thanks. Okay, first question. I don't suppose I could have some proof that, you know, you are a vampire? I mean how do I know that your corpse isn't lying on the ground somewhere else in the building. Logically, just because ghosts are real, doesn't mean other supernatural beings are." She seemed proud of herself, able to get out what she was thinking without being too indelicate.

"Of course. But I should warn you Molly, it's not tame. I apologise if I scare you."

"I think I'm beyond scaring."

"Yes, well..." And then he stared her down, intimidating and looming, the only way he knew how to change. A feral gleam flitted across his features, as his eyes flooded to a full inky black; his prominent cheek bones accentuated as his lips parted, the pale of his skin looked reddening in comparison to the stark white enamel of his teeth, his canines extended viciously into sharp pointed fangs. Then, in the moment his ulterior being had flashed across his features, it was gone, a pleasant smile sat in it's place, and Molly was unsure which state made her more uncomfortable.

"So, vampires are real. Any other -ah- creatures, I should know about?" A breathy, awkward laugh escaped her, a strangely effective way to diffuse the tension.

"Ghosts, vampires, and werewolves. The main three. There may well be others, but they are subsets, or unimportant."

"So werewolves too then. God, it's like I've stepped into one of my books, or the TV. Does John know about all of this? I mean he's living with a vampire." She asked curiously, leaning further into Sherlock's presence, her hand holding her head, elbows on knees. Sherlock subconsciously leaned closer; usually attracted by her warmth he now felt the chill that emanated her being.

"I would expect so, being a werewolf usually makes itself pretty evident."

"Okay. John's a werewolf. This. Is. Absurd."

"I should say so, werewolves and vampires are typically rivals, foes. Thankfully the 21st century brought about some changes, although the house does stink of _dog _once a month." Sherlock spat the word dog. He may well not be a typical vampire by any means, he was more than open to the cross-species friendships; but the smell that clung to his nostrils upon a full moon was wet and tinged with dirt, sweat and other beastly fragrances. His olfactory found it overwhelmingly disgusting.

Sherlock noticed Molly shifting her position, clearly still becoming accustomed to the myriad of hypocritical senses that flooded her system; she was uncomfortable, and quite unsure as to why. Excluding, of course, the obvious.

"I was thinking more the whole messed up situation Sherlock, I'm a ghost for Christ's sake. You could try and not be so nonchalant about it."

Sherlock scoffed. "Molly, I have lived a thousand years. I'm a consulting detective. I'm more often than not at a crime scene or in a morgue; unresolved deaths are somewhat part of my job description. You're not the first ghost I've come across. The most composed, least scared, that I've met, but not the only one."

"Fine, sorry, sorry. It's just a lot to get my head round, and I've been in this world five minutes, not a thousand years… Bloody hell you're old." Molly couldn't help the shock in her tone, trying in vain to banish the thoughts that for a least five years she had lusted over an a thousand year old man, _but God he looks good for a thousand._

"An elder. Yes."

"Will John be able to see me? Being a supernatural creature, like you?"

"Yes, he will. He will also know that you're a ghost the second you're in the same room. He'll sniff you out, his senses are incredible, mine were... ah, clouded with the case." Sherlock was still somewhat aggravated he had not outed Molly on the spot, every aspect of her screamed ghost, she smelt of ghost, her unnecessary breath clung to the air as only a ghosts would, she'd **told him**.

"Excuses Sherlock." Molly tutted, joking of course, but jokes weren't her forte. "Okay, final two questions, for now. How did you become this, a vampire? And how... how do you control it? I mean you left my corpse untouched, there was blood pooling around me, and you resisted, is it not a temptation? Your work is filled with blood. Oh... God. No. I give you body parts." Molly had a look of abject horror cross her features as she thought of what savage things could have happened to the limbs, eyes, heads, toes and all the bits in-between of those poor people.

"Don't jump to conclusions Molly, it doesn't suit you. Those parts were used in a purely scientific basis." He paused, reading himself for his explanations, letting Molly put away her assumptions. "At first, after the dark ages of the vampire, I replaced blood with other addictions, clouded the blood lust with a 5% solution. But that only spurred it on, I didn't kill in those times, but my body's rejection, the withdrawal was disgustingly horrid. No. Not again." He spoke almost to himself, before addressing Molly once again. "Now, it is simply mind over matter, I use my mind palace to control the temptation, I resist because, simply, I am not tempted..."

"That's an amazing sense of discipline Sherlock, of course you'd be the one with that control." Molly smiled.

"As for your other question, I was _changed_, so to speak, when I turned 32, recruited by my brother. One of the first of vampires, along with my father, two thousand seventy years my senior, it's dull, the story of my recruitment, I wished for something far more spectacular, far more intriguing. But alas I got stuck with 'the family business'. I was unaware of my _heritage _at the time, Mycroft had seemed never ageing, but most big brothers do. He always talked of how I would one day have to take on the burden, continue the legacy, all that sort of nonsense. I had assumed he was talking of his position within the world, his hold over the British people and the British soil. I was wrong. No, he got me in my sleep, a fast, almost painless change, and then 1,000 years of watching the world die around me, over and over, each new era believing themselves the saviors, each wrong. But I am settled now, sedated. As have many of our kind become, well... some."

"Wow, so you weren't even given a choice, you were just chucked into this world and expected to thrive, to settle. I certainly empathise." She glanced toward the door, past which, her corpse lay cooling, blood coagulating on the hard floor.

"Yes, quite. Though I do hope I can help to disentangle your spirit from this mortal world. I am assured that what lay beyond, once you are at rest, is far superior to watching the world crumble around you. I would rather bear that burden alone." Sherlock's eyes clouded, not the inky black of moments ago, but in the same way she had seen before his fall, paling and sad. She went to grasp his hand, forgetting herself, her 'condition', as his hand slipped right through her own, a cooling feeling on his palm the only proof of her attempt.

"You should never have to be alone, Sherlock." Molly spoke, ice-like crystals prickling in the corners of her eyes, the sensation of un-shedable tears. "You are never alone."

* * *

**Sorry for how long I take to update, I'm not going to give you loads of excuses. But I will apologise profusely. I hope this was worth the wait, and I hope you just enjoy it a little. Sorry the end's a little 'not-happy' per-say, but Molly's going to see John in the next chapter, and solving of deaths and adventures will begin. **

**A little background on Mycroft's character in this, as Mark Gatiss played Mr Snow, in the Being Human series. I stole some bits and bobs from that storyline, in case I want to further merge the two programmes etc later. I found Mycroft an appropriate elder, his character is less harsh than the Mr Snow of BH though.**


	3. You're a Bloody Werewolf

A shot. One single gunshot wound. Or so thought the world, well, wounded by a werewolf doesn't have quite the same believability.

* * *

John Watson had re-entered the world far from the man he used to be, far from the humanity he craved after the ferocity of war. He was pushed into his own ferocious cycle, following the changes of the moon as a ritual. When he had first discovered the curse that ladened his body, inhabiting a form far from his own, he thanked the God he had lost, that in that moment, he was alone, divorced from the world. When he awoke, nothing but his shredded clothes scattering the floor, no one hurt, no more death, he thanked what remained of his faith, that the PTSD had driven him to find times where he was purely alone, as far from the humanity that had driven him to fight he could be, a WWII bunker in a nearby woods served that purpose, and now it had gained another.

The process of his transformation was unsightly. Painful beyond words, beyond the screams of ripped and reforming vocal chords. No matter how many full moons he lived through, the fierce pain never dulled. It tore through him, searing his skin, snapping his bones, shrinking his organs, reforming him into a monstrous creature. It killed him, killed his human body, dragged away his consciousness, as his fingernails extended to claws and blood coated his hands. When his eyes flashed a sickly yellow, and the fangs filled his mouth, the wolf had taken over fully and irrevocably and all that remained was the external visual changes, that strip away the final shreds of the man that came before. And it scared him.

Then he'd met Sherlock Holmes. The changes still came, the pain still clouded everything; but the daunting feeling that filled his every waking moment, the monster that paced his mind, felt like a memory. It was finally just one night a month.

* * *

John sniffed the air, the thick sent coagulating blood filled his nose, even though Sherlock was clean he brought that all too familiar smell of the vampiric with him, clear to the senses of a werewolf. The smell that followed was also recognisable, yet confusing, it was sweet and calming, uncommon for a ghost, but that it was a ghost was painfully clear, the olfactory of celestial beings' crisp like fresh linen, it smelt white and cold like ice. His confusion dissipated as the two responsible for the amalgamation of smells entered the room.

"Molly, no."

"Yeah." she said with an almost disinterest John could not understand. Molly Hooper the sweetness and light of the dreary morgue, beautiful and clever, full of life, full of promise, was dead. And she had unfinished business. _Christ, unless..._

"Did you deny your door?"

"Door?" she said, somewhat confused, yet fully aware that within this situation it seemed a relatively usual line of conversation. _Clearly not then._

Sherlock, who had been silent up until this point, spoke up in explanation. He had the first hand experience with doors that John lacked. "Yes Molly, your door. Your way of passing on, it manifests itself in a door form, usually suited to yourself and your passing. Mine was suitably black and gnarled before it vanished. It won't be in your immediate memory but you'll soon remember the demons... The men with sticks and ropes, trying to greet you into the afterlife. They're meant to ignore those with unfinished business, but it's just too much _fun_ for them to leave well alone."

All too soon Molly's mind rattled, dragging up what felt far too much like a fantasy to be real. The ruffled men with pale faces and eyes of dirty white, torn ragged, but uneasily smart clothes and dirtied nails as if they had been ripped from the earth, hair in wild disarray and a smile torn straight from a horror film. In their hands they grasped shining sticks of cool metal, or thick ruthless twists of metallic rope, modern devices of torture, ready to secure another human life and drag it to their proffered destination. They had looked at her, straight in the eye, sickly sweet sentiment dripping from the expressions loose on their faces, too unreal to be claimed as anything other than predatory, they were vial manifestations.

"Oh." Molly breathed out, finding the closest chair and thudding into it causing a puff of cool air to filter through the room. _At least I've gotten sitting down, down. _It was the first time since her consciousness after death that Molly felt scared, bitterly and to her core.

Sherlock noticed how the ghost in front of him seemed to pale, he wasn't sure how, as her once coloured cheeks had lost their flush from the second the knife had entered her back. A ghost didn't have a blood to fill their cheeks, nor to drain their colour.

John was the one to act upon what he saw.

John kneeled in front of her, grasping her shoulders in his calloused hands. Molly had never really noticed how strong his hands were, never really had the occasion to, but it made sense with his _condition. _The strength behind his grip softened by his ever present humanity as he trailed her arm to meet her hands, an iciness emanated from the touch of her skin and her tearless eyes met his warm blue ones, she'd never noticed the yellow tinge around his pupils until now.

"Molly, Molls. What's wrong?"

"I just remembered. I remembered them. I remembered how it felt to slip away from my body, to leave it behind, how there was pain, and then there was nothing. I can feel the blood dripping from my mouth trailing down my chin." Molly took a gulp of air, unnecessary but needed. As her fingers ghosted over her own skin, trailing the paths of the blood.

"Sorry, bit of a delayed shock."

John pulled Molly into his arms then. "Thank you," she replied to the kind gesture.

* * *

"So John, you're a werewolf then."


End file.
